


Sherlock Holmes and the Man with the Painted Face

by 2babyturtles



Series: Vatican Cameos [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Budding Love, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Case, Crime, Death, Forensics, Gen, Heartbreak, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love, M/M, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic Soulmates, Potential Romance, TJLC, Tragedy, Trauma, casefic, it can be read either way, possible johnlock - Freeform, potential relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: “Life is an adventure of passion, risk, danger, laughter, beauty, love; a burning curiosity to go with the action to see what it is all about, to go search for a pattern of meaning, to burn one's bridges because you're never going to go back anyway, and to live to the end.” ~Saul D. Alinsky





	1. Just a Skip Away

_We can’t command our love, but we can our actions. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 “John? John! Stay with me, John, you have to survive this, come on you have to survive this.”

“We're losing him!”

“John come on, please!”

“Sir, we’re going to need you to wait here while we take him into surgery.”

“John….” 

* * *

There’s an eerie stillness that settles in the air before a gunshot. Like the clouds that precede a storm. It’s always broken with a bang and the world flies into a flurry trying, like it’s trying to make up for that one still moment. 

* * *

Sherlock crosses and uncrosses his legs, anxiously waiting for something to happen. He’s spent most of the past week utterly bored and Mycroft’s promised case hasn’t come through yet. He considers pacing but it doesn’t occupy him as well since he managed to map out every possible way to stride across the living room of 221B.

“If you keep bouncing around like that you’re going to wear yourself out,” John comments from behind his newspaper.

Sherlock scoffs and curls his legs up onto his seat. “Worn out is better than this dreadful boredom. It is too still, everything is too still.”

“Right, and you wouldn’t want to sit still for more than five seconds.”

“Exactly.” He peers at the newspaper where John’s face is buried, wondering what could possibly be so interesting about The Telegraph’s most recent stories. Even the headline is obnoxiously tedious and Sherlock directs his eyes elsewhere to avoid his building disgust.

“We could go out,” John muses, not looking up.

“Out? What’s there to do out there? Nothing ever happens out there. No,” he pauses, jumping from his seat and to the window in one fluid motion. He peers outside at the street below, watching as people move about their regular routines. “Everything happens out there.”

Finally deciding Sherlock needs his attention, John folds the newspaper and laughs, looking up at his friend who clearly doesn’t find the situation humorous. “What’re you on about? I only meant we could get a drink or summat.”

“You’re absolutely right, John. Let us find ourselves a case!” Sherlock’s sudden mood shift is more inconvenient than worrying to the doctor, who has seen more manic behaviour from the detective in the past. John watches as he bounds into his bedroom and returns a moment later, dressed to go out. “Why haven’t you moved at all? This was your idea.”

“Right, yes, absolutely my idea. Let’s just…right.” He stands quickly and follows Sherlock downstairs. They each grab their coat from the hook by the door and exit onto the sidewalk of Baker Street.

It’s still early but at this time of year the sun sets early and there’s a musty sort of darkness hanging in the street. Clouds are gathering and people walking by display evidence that the rain isn’t far off. John steps up to the side of the road to hail a cab but Sherlock continues up the street, evidently drawn by the throng of activity along the sidewalk.

A cab pulls up as John notices his friend’s departure and he looks longingly at the warm, dry interior before gesturing for the driver to leave again and taking off after Sherlock. “What’re you doing?” he asks, catching up as Sherlock rounds a corner into an alleyway. “I thought you were tracking after the crowd up there, what’s in here?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he murmurs, peering behind a nearby skip.

“Right, I could’ve told you that. What’re you looking for?”

He pulls himself back to face John and smiles flatly. “Absolutely nothing.”

John follows him as he returns to the main street and swings a hard right, pursuing the crowds again. A soft drizzle interrupts the sky and draws groans from the doctor, who suddenly regrets suggesting they leave the flat.

“Do you see that?” Sherlock asks, pointing to the bustle of people as they lift their hoods and raise their umbrellas. “Do you see the way the smallest change sends massive ripples? Something’s going to happen.”

John watches for a moment before responding. “Yeah,” he finally says, “a rainstorm. I could’ve told you that. Do you wanna get a drink or not?”

Sherlock breaks his reverie and peers at John with a smirk. “Certainly, John. Let us satiate your thirst before the game begins.” He leads forward again, towards a nearby pub. John shakes his head, doing his best to ignore the eagerness in his friend’s voice. It’s nearly always a bad day for London when Sherlock Holmes gets excited about something, and somebody almost always dies.

 _Vatican Cameos,_ John thinks to himself, wishing he could shake the certainty that something bad was going to happen. Although, if someone was going to die, it was better that Sherlock was hunting for a case when they did. At least the crime would be solved sooner rather than later.

By the time they arrive at the pub, rain is coming down sideways and the icy winds have brought out the heat of John’s discomfort. “Next time,” he grumbles as they take their seats at the bar. “We’re taking a cab.”

“Please, John, the walk was hardly a long one,” Sherlock responds, his voice light and his eyes dancing.

“But it was a wet one! I’m serious, Sherlock. I can’t possibly enjoy a drink when I’m soaked through.”

“Well then shall we go home?” Sherlock pauses in the middle of removing his scarf, threatening to return it to his neck should John decide he wants to leave.

“No,” he responds. “I want a drink.” He orders himself a simple drink with extra Scotch, and a water for Sherlock.

“Actually, I think I’ll have something stronger,” he responds, requesting a Brandy cocktail and smiling at the bartender as he walks away.

John watches for a moment as Sherlock shoves his scarf into his pocket before opening his mouth.

“Yes, John, I do enjoy a drink now and again. No, I am not on a case yet so I see no problem with something stronger than water. No, I do not plan on getting drunk. Was that all?” He cocks an eyebrow at his friend for only a moment before pulling out his phone and absorbing himself in a series of searches.

John shrugs and returns his own attention to the environment in the bar, knowing Sherlock will hardly be up for conversation until he’s finished uncovering whatever he’s trying to uncover. Rows of bottles set in front of a mirror line the back of the bar and the elderly bartender has clearly set a more classic atmosphere. Most of the clientele seems satisfied with quiet conversations over hard cocktails, and few people, if anyone, stands out. It seems early for so many people to be drinking, but then, he and Sherlock were drinking, so perhaps it wasn’t that early.

“Got it!” Sherlock hisses, pushing his phone in his pocket as their drinks arrive. “Drink up, John,” he announces, throwing back his own cocktail and wiping his mouth with his hand. “We’ve got a case.”

John watches, open-mouthed, as Sherlock grunts against the sting of Brandy and returns his scarf to his neck, buttoning his coat and darting quickly out the door. He glances at Sherlock’s empty glass and then at his own full one, contemplating performing the same insanity before deciding against it. He ordered a drink to enjoy it and now he has to pay for them both, so he might as well enjoy the moment. Unfortunately, his rather soaked jacket and pants don’t allow him too much comfort and he settles instead for finishing it in just a few mouthfuls.

“No need,” the bartender insists as John retrieves his wallet. “The gentleman in the corner booth paid for both your drinks.” He takes the empty glasses and walks away, pointing to a booth in the back of the pub. John leans back to see if he can identify their benefactor but the booth is empty now.

He sets his brows, concerned, but follows Sherlock out of the bar anyway. London’s lights are the brightest thing outside, now, and the sky is blotted out by heavy clouds reflecting the brown smoggy glow of the city. The rain has temporarily stopped but the air is still cold and damp and John crosses his arms uncomfortably, grumbling as he looks around for Sherlock. He finally spots a bit of black coat disappearing into yet another alley and is grateful that the crowd seems to have dispersed enough to make this sight possible. He follows after Sherlock, shaking his head.

“You’re bloody mad, Sherlock. Can’t just have one normal night out,” he grouses, approaching Sherlock.

“Indeed,” the detective responds from his place crouched beside another skip. “But this time, I have found something rather extraordinary.” He points to the brick wall in front of him where a symbol is painted with white graffiti spray.

“Don’t tell me it’s the Black Lotus again.”

Sherlock turns, breaking his attention and peering at John impatiently. “You really don’t see what I see, do you?”

John scoffs and kneels beside Sherlock, planting his knees in the mud and looking at him with glowing eyes full of defiance. “What is it, then, what am I looking at?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, sighing. “You’re such a child,” he mumbles, gesturing at the wall again. “Look closer, _Doctor_ Watson, and tell me what you see.”

Sighing, John does as he’s told and freezes, suddenly realizing what Sherlock had meant. “Oh,” he breathes, instinctively drawing himself towards the splattered blood stain on the wall. He didn’t study forensics at Bart’s but his own experience with gunfire and in day-to-day life with Sherlock has given him enough knowledge for him to recognize that someone was shot through the head here.

“What do you make of it?” Sherlock asks excitedly, drawing his magnifying glass and examining the painted symbol more closely.

“Of the bl- Of the paint? Sherlock, somebody died here.” _Vatican Cameos._ He swallows hard and shakes his head to clear the thought. “Does the mark have anything to do with that? How did you even know where to look?”

Rocking back on his heels, his eyes glowing fiercely, Sherlock pushes himself back to a standing position and peers down at his comrade. “Because I’ve seen it before.”


	2. Lies and Lines of White

_It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

“Sherlock, we’re going to need your statement.”

“Now? With John….”

“The sooner you talk to us, the sooner we can get the guy who did this.”

“Just say it, Detective Inspector.”

“We want to catch the guy who shot John Watson.”

* * *

 

There’s few places as lonely as the Emergency Room’s lobby. Waiting for news and being terrified to receive it. Watching as the clock ticks on, wondering if it’s ticking its last for someone on the other side of those big double doors.

* * *

 

Sherlock draws himself to his feet and takes a step back. “While I do appreciate your fascination, John, your head is quite in the way of adequate photography.”

John snorts but gets out of the way of Sherlock’s camera phone just as the flash goes off. “You really are so impatient.”

Sherlock smiles but otherwise ignores his friend. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters.

“Well someone died, so yes I’d say something’s wrong.” _Vatican Cameos_. He can’t seem to get it out of his head that the worst has yet to come.

Sighing as he snaps another image, Sherlock responds sarcastically. “Yes, John, wonderful observation. Who, pray tell, died?”

John looks back at the blood spot on the wall, wondering what Sherlock could possibly be getting at. “Well I can’t tell you that, can I? There’s no bod-“ he stops, turning away with a sigh. “There’s no body.”

“Precisely. Why would someone take the time to move the body but not to cover their tracks at all? Especially not when they tell us so much about both the victim and the killer.” Locking his phone and returning it to his coat pocket, he takes a few steps to stand in front of the nearby skip. He examines the lid closely, and activity that John can’t imagine smells good.

“Sherlock, what’re you on about? What’ve you got about the victim or the killer from a blood stain? I mean,” he looks back at the splatter, hoping to notice anything to make his own deduction. “It’s fresh,” he mutters, noting the color. “And low. So the person was…on their knees? Execution style then.”

Sherlock pauses, turning to look at his comrade. “Very good, John,” he responds, raising his eyebrows and looking sincerely impressed. “I hadn’t realized I was rubbing off on you at all.”

“I was clever before I met you, Sherlock Holmes,” John scoffs.

“Absolutely. So you can figure out the height of the assailant and victim then, too? And deduce their relationship to each other?” he asks, returning his attention to the skip’s lid.

John crouches, staring at the wall, the blood, the painted symbol, and the ground near there. A spot of chipped brick catches his eye. “The bullet’s gone,” he finally announces.

“Yes, which answers part of my question.”

 “Oh, go on then. What’ve you got?” John crosses his arms as he returns to his feet.

Sherlock glances at his friend, smiling a bit. “I’m so glad you suggested we go out, John, this really is quite fun.” He steps away from the skip and points at the wall. “There’s a fair bit of blood and there you can see brain matter. So, the victim was shot through the head. At that height, though? Definitely on their knees, like you said. However, even for being on their knees this shot is low. Which means that the assailant was tall and likely pushing their victim forward, shooting down through their head. This largely rules out a shot to the face and facing the victim away from themselves often indicates they knew the victim personally.

 You can also see here that the victim fell against the wall at the same height as the blood spatter which means they didn’t have to fall far to make contact. If they were facing the other way, they’d have to fall at least as far as the length of their lower legs on the ground. The space beside the skip isn’t large enough to simply have had them further away from the wall.

The fact that this location seems chosen on purpose tells us that it wasn’t a crime of passion—humans are so silly—but that it likely was planned. It could mean that the assailant was scared and shot a stranger but couldn’t handle looking them in the face, but look at the paint. It’s sprayed over the blood splatter but there’s no signs their hands were shaking. No fear then. So it’s either a killer who’s done this before or one who knew their victim, or both.”

John is quiet, pondering Sherlock’s words for a moment before responding. “So what about the skip’s lid? What’re you looking for?”

“Look around the ground,” Sherlock says, taking a step back  and gesturing at the dirty alley floor. “We’re lucky this bit isn’t paved, dirt tells us so much. It’s been rainy but there’s no foot prints except where we’ve been standing. The rain’s been coming down at an angle that allowed us to preserve the blood on the wall here and keep it from drying, but neither the victim nor the killer left any marks in the dirt? That’s odd. So I suggest the assailant must have escaped up the fire escape there,” he points above the skip, “by climbing over the lid.”

“But what about the body? No one could climb a ladder and carry a body.”

Sherlock smiles , his eyes glinting excitedly. “Exactly, John. Which is precisely why this is so odd.” He glances at the ladder above their heads, calculating where the killer might’ve gone. “Our assailant killed the victim, retrieved the bullet, covered their tracks, painted the wall, and hid the body all before exiting up the ladder and without leaving any footprints.”

“Couldn’t the rain have just washed away the footprints?” John ponders, looking up the same way.

Snorting, Sherlock drops his gaze back to his friend. “No. Despite your complaints, I think the rain is not quite heavy enough to do that.”

John is quiet again, thinking. This is too much for him to take in at once and he can’t help being amazed not only that Sherlock can deduce it all, but that he can remember it all. His eyes grace the painted symbol and a thought comes to mind. “Sherlock, you said you’ve seen this before? But it’s just a couple of lines. It can’t be that unique, can it?” The white paint forms a triangle, with a jagged line from the bottom into the middle of the shape.

“Not according to Mycroft.” He retrieves his phone again and opens a text from the elder Holmes brother.

**Leviticus 25:10.**   
**Skip to My Lou.**   
**MH**

John only just finishes reading the message when Sherlock takes it back, sending off a reply to his brother and then sending another text. “Lestrade?” John confirms, receiving a curt nod from Sherlock. Although he’s grateful that Sherlock is thinking clearly enough to call for the Yard, John can’t help worrying that this is bigger than he realizes. He’s seen a lot of strange cases but none ever prompted Sherlock to include Lestrade so soon. “This is the case Mycroft sent you?” he realizes slowly. “Is that why you agreed to go out?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock responds, indignant. “I simply took advantage of the outing. Besides, I didn’t even realize they were American until the pub.”

Before John can respond, sirens and several police cars arrive. Lestrade is in the first one and climbs out calmly, seeming more comfortable than John thinks the situation really inspires. “How did you possibly get here so fast?” John asks when the Detective Inspector gets closer.

“Sherlock texted me pictures of a bloody crime scene,” he responds, shrugging. His phone goes off again and he checks it. “And just texted me again to make sure I’m on my way.”

Sherlock smiles, hands in his pockets and innocence on his face. “Well you’re often late.”

“How can he be late to a crime scene?” John muses, laughing despite himself.

Turning his eyes skyward, his voice hollow, Sherlock murmurs softly: “A storm is coming. Best do this now.”

John and Lestrade exchange a glance before John finally coughs, clearing his throat, and breaks the tension. “Right, so you said you have a body for us?” Lestrade asks.

“No, there’s no b-“  
“Right here.”

Throwing off the lid of the skip, Sherlock stands back to allow the Yard’s team to come look. John glances open-mouthed, first at the broken body laying in the bottom of the empty skip, and then at Sherlock who somehow seems entirely satisfied with allowing the forensics team first access. Sherlock catches his eye and shakes his head almost imperceptibly, glancing away from him almost as soon as he’d looked. John closes his mouth and resolves to play along, although Lestrade noticed the exchange.

“You didn’t know there was a body?” he asks incredulously.

“I meant that there’s no body where the blood is,” John responds smoothly, noting Sherlock’s small smile as he lies for him. “Look,” he points at the wall and the painted symbol.

Lestrade’s eyes narrow for a moment but he sighs when he takes in the bloody wall. “Well, there’s the crime scene Sherlock sent me a picture of. I appreciate you involving the Yard on this this time, by the way. There’s a lot more paperwork when you don’t do it the right way.”

Sherlock laughs sharply as Lestrade crouches to examine the scene. “Ah, don’t worry. We’ll still make it plenty difficult.”


	3. Funny, You're Still Fat

_Where there is no imagination there is no horror. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

“Mr. Holmes? I’m so sorry…it’s not good news.”

“Ah…I see. Is there any hope at all?”

“Not much, sir. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

* * *

 

No one is ever scared of the moment they are in, but only of waiting to find out what happens in the next one. We rip ourselves apart, piece by broken piece, waiting for the chance to break into the future and steal the answers for ourselves today.

* * *

 

The walk back to 221B isn’t long, particularly when John’s vigor is so bolstered by news. He hadn’t wanted to tell Sherlock, but he’d been bored, too. Now, he can’t possibly be. Of course, he hates himself for it; people are dying, London is under attack, and John Watson is excited for something to occupy his afternoon.

“What was that about?” he finally asks as they enter their flat and hang their coats back on the rack.

Sherlock smiles but keeps his eyes focused on his task. “What was what about?”

“Why’d you lie to me? And then to Lestrade?” John can’t keep the fact that he’s a bit hurt out of his voice, a fact which Sherlock picks up on immediately.

The detective turns to view his friend face on and his eyes narrow. “Because you were more interested in a drink than a case and I needed to see whether you were really as apathetic as you seemed.”

John draws his head back, surprised by the response. Sherlock’s outbursts are usually so much more dramatic that this quiet display makes John uneasy. “Do you _doubt_ me?” he finally asks, gaping.

Sherlock’s brows come together, a sincerely confused expression. “Of course not, John. I simply won’t drag you into a case you’re not interested in.” He gestures up the stairs and follows John, both clomping in their wet clothes.

“It wouldn’t exactly be the first time,” John laughs, opening the door. The sight of Mycroft, standing in between Sherlock’s and John’s chairs, is enough to stop the burst of humor.

Sherlock stops in the doorway, eyeing his brother suspiciously before glancing around the room and making a quick observation. “Get out, Mycroft,” he finally sighs, exasperated, as he moves to the kitchen.

John clears his throat and smiles awkwardly at Mycroft. The silence between them stretched, only interrupted by the clinking, banging, and general ruckus from the kitchen.

“I cannot pretend this case is not of the utmost importance, Sherlock,” Mycroft pushes finally, turning away from John.

“Don’t care!” Sherlock calls back. John has to turn his head to hide his laughter.

“You should care,” Mycroft responds darkly. “This will invade these walls. You are not safe here. Either of you.” His eyes turn momentarily to John and the depth of his sincerity is shocking.

“You’re really worried?” John asks incredulously, watching as Mycroft pulls his pocketwatch from his vest and checks the time sadly. “Why don’t _you_ do anything, then?”

A humorless laugh bursts from Mycroft’s lips and they curl into a grimace. “You have no idea,” he whispers, “the things that I have done to protect the two of you.” His eyes search John’s face for a moment before he steps back and straightens up. John hadn’t even realized he’d leaned in so close and the sudden distance feels cold. “But I can’t take all your cases, Sherlock.”

“Have you taken many?” Sherlock asks, popping his head around the corner. “Funny, you still look fat. Taking cases from the couch, then?”

Mycroft sighs as Sherlock retreats again. His frown deepens even further somehow and his eyes are gaunt. “Do try to convince him, Dr. Watson,” heannounces, slinging his umbrella around his elbow. Tall and sly as ever, he steps towards the door and out, without a further glance.

“Convince me to take the case,” Sherlock shouts, answering John’s unspoken question and slamming something into the table top.

“Haven’t you already?” John follows the sound and retrieves a mug for himself. “I mean, you said that Mycroft put you up to this bit with the symbol and the bit with the body and…” he pauses to take a bite of a biscuit, choosing one from the table as most have fallen off the plate Sherlock slammed down. “Honestly I have no idea. What’s happening?”

Setting down the kettle and a bottle of cream, Sherlock collapses at the dining table. “Honestly, I haven’t either,” he smirks. “I received that text from Mycroft just before you suggested we go out.”

John sits back against his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “So in the last...what two hours? You received a text, deduced that it would be a symbol, deduced that it was in fact a symbol, drank a cocktail, and found a victim by that same symbol?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sniffs, averting his eyes as he takes the first sip of tea. “Problem?”

“No,” John laughs. “It’s bloody amazing.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches and his eyes sparkle softly. “Thank you, John,” he responds, almost humbly. “We know a bit about the attacker, too. We’ll need to start fast. This isn’t going to end here.”

“You mean there’ll be more?” John asks incredulously, grabbing his own cup of tea. “More bodies? More victims?”

“And more attackers,” Sherlock responds. His eyes are glazed and his focus is clearly not on the moment at hand. He pushes himself off from the table and goes to the window, peering outside like he might be able to see a crime taking place. “This isn’t one murderer, this is a group acting together. Their victims all have something in common and there’s a good chance their families wouldn’t want anyone to know it.”

“Right,” John mutters, following as best he can. “What makes you think so?”

Sighing, Sherlock narrows his eyes. “What makes me think so?” he repeats, as if he’s not sure himself. “They’re American. The symbol is the Liberty Bell and the text my brother sent points to that. That’s the Bell’s inscription. But an American with deep patriotic roots, whose criminal actions are guided by that? They couldn’t be working alone in a foreign city with any success. No, there’s something more. They’re working together. It has to be more than one.”

“How do we know they’re American? Maybe they’re just posing as Americans or something?”

“Possible,” Sherlock concedes. “But unlikely.” He draws his gaze back inside the flat and seems to focus suddenly on John’s face as he takes another biscuit from the plate.

“What?” John asks, feeling guilty.

“But it’s possible….” Lowering himself onto the couch, he closes his eyes and quietly enters his mind palace.

John scoffs quietly and shakes his head. “Well then I’m going to-”

“Don’t eat all the biscuits,” Sherlock’s voice rings from the other room.

“Bloody hell, _go back to your mind palace, Sherlock.”_

 


	4. Well You Have Questions, Don't You?

_There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

“Can you believe it’s been a week?”

“Quite, so. It seems that I’ve not eaten in a week.”

“Sherlock, you have to eat something.”

“I will. John and I will get chips.”

“Sherlock, you know John might not—“

“Be quiet, Lestrade.”

* * *

 

Quiet moments are always the loudest. When frail breathing and declining heartbeats are the loudest thing we know. And the loud moments are the quietest. When the only sound that remains is the lingering peal of a gunshot and a broken scream.

* * *

 

Sherlock sighs as he opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling. He’s not sure how long it’s been but it’s still dark outside and John’s nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t sit up straight away. He’s sure John has questions and he wants to think through his words carefully. Something in his stomach tells him this case will be dangerous. He doesn’t have long to think before he hears the toilet flush and water come on as someone washes their hands—presumably John.

“That was fast,” John wonders, making eye contact with Sherlock, who shifts his gaze slowly away from the ceiling to look at him.

“Was it?” he responds, sitting up cautiously.

“Mhmm,” John says, returning to a crossword puzzle he must’ve started when Sherlock was in his mind palace. “Just under an hour. Usually you’re gone much longer.”

Sherlock laughs lightly at the word ‘gone’ and raises an eyebrow at his friend. “Well, I can give you some more time alone if that’s a particularly interesting puzzle. Thirty-seven down is ‘malignant’.”

John’s eyes widen in disbelief and frustration. “You can’t possibly…” he checks the answer and throws down his pencil in disgust. “How could you possibly know that?”

Drawing himself to his feet and making his way to the kitchen, Sherlock laughs again. “Helped Mrs. Hudson solve it earlier.”

Staring, John can’t seem to decide whether he wants to laugh or shout. He settles on a half-chuckle and shakes his head. “You’re awful,” he announces. “Bloody awful.”

“Aren’t I though?” Sherlock smirks. Their eyes meet again and there’s a softness between the friends that relieves John’s worries that Sherlock doubts him.

John waits for Sherlock to sit before he launches into his questions. His eyes track Sherlock as he goes first to the fridge, retrieving a bag of human blood, and then to the cupboard where he selects from a number of spray-paints. He eyes the wall for a moment before dipping his hand into the blood and splattering it in front of him. Without bothering to clean his hand first, he then yanks the lid off the first can, shakes it, and sprays a line over the blood. He proceeds to the next can of paint and sprays another line next to it. Repeating this until he’s covered all of the blood spatter with different types of paint, he nods and moves finally to the sink, to clean himself off.

John’s eyebrows come down into a question and his mouth pops open to say something like _hey, don’t do that_ but nothing comes out. Shrugging, he decides it’ll be easy enough to clean up later and doesn’t say anything. Finally, after what seems like a long time, Sherlock moves to the chair across from John and takes a seat, propping himself up on his hands and looking at John expectantly.

“What?” John asks, nervous that Sherlock obviously is waiting for something.

“Well you have questions, don’t you? Ask them.” Narrowing his eyes, John watches Sherlock suspiciously for a moment before settling into his seat more comfortably and taking a steadying breath. “I mean you do usually have questions,” Sherlock interrupts. “I thought this time might be similar.”

“Did you want me to ask them or not?” John growls.

Smirking, Sherlock leans back in his chair, his arms tumbling down his sides casually. “Go on then,” he nods.

“Thank you,” John responds curtly. He takes another breath as he sorts out which question he’d like to ask first. “Tell me about the text,” he decides.

Sherlock nods, apparently having anticipated that John would start at the beginning, and retrieves his phone from his pocket. He holds up the device for a moment to show John the message again:

 **Leviticus 25:10**  
Skip to my Lou  
MH

“Mycroft sent me just those two lines. He didn’t say anything else, although he’d mentioned a growing conspiracy in London and I assumed this was related. He must’ve gotten the information from his spies or something boring like that. So the two lines weren’t related but related to the case.”

“Right,” John agrees, doing his best to follow. He’s glad he thought to have a notepad ready before Sherlock came back from his mind palace and he scribbles notes as Sherlock speaks.

“The second line, ‘Skip to my Lou,’ is an American folk song. So it’s an American Folk song and a Bible verse. My first thought was maybe that it was a set of directions or something. That’s why I checked the first skip on the way to the bar.”

“And you were right,” John says, interrupting with wide eyes. “The victim was found by a skip.”

“Strange though, isn’t it? Americans don’t call those skips, they’re dumpsters. So why use an American folk song to get there? Definitely something strange,” Sherlock muses, eyes glazing a bit as if he’s looking at something only he can see. “But anyway, when the first skip wasn’t right, I decided not to waste time trying all of them and when we got to the bar I did some searching online.” Opening his phone and returning to the search engine he’d used previously, he taps the screen a few times and shows John the results.

“’Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof’,” John reads aloud.”What’s that about?”

“That’s the verse in Leviticus,” he responds, taking back the phone and flipping to another screen. “It’s also the inscription on the Liberty Bell. Important piece of American history, although there doesn’t seem to be much day-to-day value in it. But so it’s the inscription on the Liberty Bell and an American folk song. Whoever Mycroft is so worried about, they have to be American.”

“But you said they could just be posing as Americans, right?”

Sherlock smiles affectionately, leaning forward on his elbows. “No, John, you said that. But you could be right. It’s possible and the fact that the body was indeed inside a skip makes me think it’s pretty likely. An American wouldn’t use it that way naturally. And then there’s the fact that the body was within walking distance of our flat. Almost as if they wanted us to find it.”

The bartenders words in the pub suddenly come back to John and his eyes widen. “Sherlock, when we were in the pub and you walked out, I went to pay but the bartender said someone else paid for our drinks.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to John’s as eagerness builds in his posture. “Did he say who? Did you see her?”

“It was a man,” John responds, curious at Sherlock’s reaction. “He had a hat on and he was sort of in the corner in the dark, I couldn’t really see him much.”

“A man,” he repeats, sounding dazed. “What sort of hat was he wearing?”

John shakes his head, confused. “What kind of-? I dunno. Some funny looking fedora type thing. Like those cold cowboy movies.”

A menacing smile breaks across Sherlock’s face and he sits back in his chair, his hands still on the table. “Those old _American_ films, John.”

“You mean that guy was part of this whole thing?”

“It seems like. Although it’s strange. Do you think he was lithe enough to climb over the skip and take the fire escape without leaving any footprints?”

John thinks back and sighs. “I’m really not sure. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Well, how about a drink then?” Sherlock asks, standing and gesturing towards the door.

 _Vatican Cameos_. Danger seems so close and the fear of something going wrong gnaws at John’s stomach. But he can’t let Sherlock go alone and besides, there’s no real reason to think anything bad is going to happen.

“Yeah, alright,” he responds, standing himself and leading the way out the door.


	5. That's Twenty Quid

_ The ideal reasoner, he remarked, would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. ~A.C.D. _

* * *

 

“I’m so sorry, John…I wish I could hear your voice again. I wish I could be sure you understood how sorry I am for all of it. I’d take it all back if I could keep you safe.”

* * *

 

By the time we realize we’re wrong, it’s very rarely in time to correct our mistake. If we ever could, there would be no such thing as regret. The very easiest wrongs to regret are the ones we think we should’ve seen coming or think we had some power to stop.

* * *

 

Thankfully, Sherlock agrees to a cab this time. The ride back to the bar is especially brief but John is pleased to be off his feet and Sherlock takes the opportunity to peer down each alleyway as they go. Whether or not he prefers to walk, he can’t deny that there’s a certain helpful expediency provided by cabs.

“I’m still a bit confused,” John decides finally, turning his head towards Sherlock.

“Of course you are,” Sherlock replies simply.

Scowling, John’s eyes catch on the crime scene as they pass it again. “Why didn’t you want to look at the body?” he wonders aloud. He’d meant to ask it as a question but the moment seems gone now and he doesn’t particularly want to focus on Sherlock if he’s going to be a twit about it.

Sherlock turns now, examining John’s expression closely. “Why do I examine bodies?” he asks, pushing John to answer his own question. There’s a fire blazing in his eyes, as if he’s determined to prove that John can find his own answer.

John thinks for a moment before responding. “To figure out how they died,” he decides. “Or who they are--”  _Vatican Cameos,_ “—were. Or both.”

“Right. But we already know all that. At least, we know everything the body could tell us.”

“You don’t even know who the victim is,” John retorts, confusion dancing across his face.

“I know that we won’t figure out anything that the Yard won’t,” Sherlock responds quietly, his eyes pointed out the front window. “Not this time.”

“Sherlock,” John laughs, exasperation thick in his voice. He turns in his seat so he can face his friend properly and gives him a stern glare. “You can’t go on being so cryptic. We’re partners on this thing, so talk to me.”

Fixed on John’s face, Sherlock’s eyes seem to glisten. There’s something in them that John can’t identify and he wonders if the same sense of danger has occurred to Sherlock.  _Vatican Cameos,_ he thinks.  _Dear Lord don’t let it be this man._

“Very well,” Sherlock responds slowly. “But wait until we get inside.”

The cab pulls to a stop outside the bar and John stays a moment to pay the bill. Climbing into the London air, Sherlock finds himself drawn to the city lights. They’ve always fascinated him and even now he can’t help admiring the way the city seems to pulse, as alive in and of itself as the people dwelling within it are. Well, most of them are. He shakes his head to clear the sensation that something isn’t right and turns towards John.

“Shall we? And do point out the cowboy if you see him,” he says, following as John scoffs and leads the way inside.

If it was busy before, it is packed now. The flood of moving bodies seem to draw energy from each other and emit it back in waves that would enliven even Mycroft. The idea of his brother in a place like this almost draws a laugh from Sherlock and he smiles down at his friend.

“What’s so funny?” John shouts over the din. There’s music playing but Sherlock can’t identify the song and he wonders if it’s a popular tune.

“Just imagine Mycroft here,” he muses, pulling them to an open pair of seats at the bar. “He’d have no idea what to do with himself.”

John laughs hesitantly, eying Sherlock as they sit down. “Are you particularly comfortable? I can’t imagine either of you loves this sort of place.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I do believe I’ve told you I enjoy dancing and I told you earlier I don’t mind a drink. I probably don’t fit in too well,” he concedes, glancing back at the nearest group; a young woman with a belly-shirt dances aggressively against a man whose studded belt can’t possibly make that particular maneuver comfortable for her. “But I do enjoy it. There’s so much to see!” His eyes alight, Sherlock glances around the room eagerly.

John watches with a small smile, wondering what sort of things could possibly be going through the detective’s mind. Certainly there’s things to see here—his eyes flick back to the young couple Sherlock had noticed—but he doubts very highly that Sherlock is quite as aware of the same sorts of things as he is. The bartender approaches before he can ask and this time John orders for them both.

“Couple of pints of Fosters,” he tells the man, who nods and brings them back in just a moment. “Ta.”

“You two were in just a bit ago,” the bartender laughs, watching as John takes an immediate swig and wipes the foam from his mouth. His heavy Scottish accent and booming voice draw glances from nearby patrons but no one pays mind for long.

“Good memory,” Sherlock remarks, grabbing his own glass and taking a much smaller sip. “Do you remember who paid for our drinks last time? We rushed out and didn’t have a chance to thank him.”

“I remember he was real tall,” the bartender says. “Funny hat, like one of those old cowboy movies. And he had an American accent but I couldn’t tell you where from. They all sound about the same to me,” he confesses. “Either I can understand ‘em or I can’t at all.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and presses his lips together. “I’m sure they’d say the same of you, friend.”

“Ay,” he laughs. “That they would.”

“Did you see where the man went?” Sherlock continues, pressing for information in that strange casual way he does. John glances at him out of the corner of his eye, surprised by how comfortable he sounds. Of course, he’s always surprised by the charisma Sherlock suddenly is capable of when information is at stake. John swallows hard and takes another deep draw from his glass, wondering exactly how much is at stake.

“No, I don’t pay that close attention,” the bartender laughs again, evidently feeling rather amused by the whole situation.

“Shame,” Sherlock grimaces, taking another small sip. With his lips pressed so tightly together, it almost looks like he’s not drinking at all and John wonders for a moment if he’s not. His own glass halfway to his mouth, he pauses, watching Sherlock with narrowed eyes. The detective shakes his head almost imperceptibly and his gaze bores harshly into John’s.

“That’s twenty quid then,” John announces, smirking into his beer.

Playing along, his eyes only momentarily showing any hint of confusion, Sherlock sighs. “Hey now,” he grumbles. “Ten. He did remember us.”

The bartender watches suspiciously as Sherlock pulls out his wallet and passes John a couple of notes. “What’s this about?” he finally asks, curiosity bubbling out of his throat.

“John didn’t think you’d remember. I thought it was worth at least coming back to thank the bloke, but you did remember us so that’s something I guess,” Sherlock explains, finally taking a full swig from his glass. He drains nearly half of it in a single gulp and bangs the glass back down on the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Don’t be stupid,” the bartender scoffs. “Who could remember a thing like that?”

John shrugs happily, tucking the notes into his pocket. “No one, I guess. Cheers, mate.”

The bartender shoots a guilty look at Sherlock, who shrugs disappointedly. “I can find out,” he insists, suddenly eager. “Will that get you the money back?”

Sherlock looks sideways at John who bobbles his head. “Maybe,” he decides, drawing the word out.

“Let’s see it then,” Sherlock says, turning back to the bartender. “What’ve you got?”

The bartender smiles, waggling his eyebrows and taking a short step sideways to the cash register. “He paid with a card,” he says, digging through recent receipts. “Aha! Dan Coates,” he announces, waving a receipt around. “Bought your two drinks and then his own. Got a Guiness.”

Moving suddenly, Sherlock pulls his phone from his pocket and begins searching. John and the bartender watch him for a moment, exchanging an awkward glance with each other. “Right, then,” John finally responds. “Thanks for that.” He withdraws the ten quid from his pocket and hands it to the man. “Keep it,” he says. “It’s his turn to pay for drinks anyway.”

“Arranges music books,” Sherlock mutters. “’I lost my partner, what’ll I do? I’ll get another, as pretty as you’.”

“Are you singing?” John asks, laughing softly.

“Dan Coates, John. Dan Coates!”


	6. This Was Not a Mercy

_Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognizes genius. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

“Are you prepared for the worst, Sherlock?”

“We can’t dwell on that. There’s too much at stake.”

“Yes, I suppose there is.”

“Vatican Cameos, Mycroft. Please do take care of yourself.”

* * *

 

Isn’t it funny that the best tends to bring out our worst, and vice versa? It is when we have everything that we begin taking it for granted. It is when we have lost everything that we find a strength to be our best selves and push ever onward.

* * *

 

Sherlock waves a hand with a sardonic smile, dismissing the bartender. Somehow, the pulsing crowd seems even louder than before. Turning on his stool so he can see the movement behind them, John draws again from his beer. “You can’t keep being such a tit,” he murmurs. “At some point it’s going to get you into trouble.”

“Oh don’t choose this moment to correct my behavior, today is just getting good.”

“It’s eleven o’clock at night, I hope your day was alright before all this.”

Sherlock shoots him a weary glance. “Alright,” he says. “Answers. Why would they bother to hide the body at all if they were going to do it so poorly? They didn’t clean up the crime scene at all, they just dumped the body and left. So there’s nothing for me to find on the body that the Yard won’t because there was nothing worth keeping me from seeing.”

“Oh, you’re answering my questions now?” John wants to laugh but can’t keep a scowl off his face and sighs, resigned to the conversation. His eyes sweep the rest of the room, enjoying the fact that there seem to be more women present than usual. “You think the body was there for you to find just because it was close to the flat?”

“That depends. I have two theories.” His thumbs move rapidly over his phone’s screen as he talks and John makes a mental note to come back to the question of the man’s name. “The first is that they’re Americans and just happened to get close to the flat. They likely don’t know who I am or where we live and it’s just a happy coincidence that we got to discover the body.”

“Right,” John concedes slowly. “But you don’t believe in coincidences.”

“’The universe is rarely so lazy’,” he agrees, quoting his brother. “So the second possibility is that they are posing, like you said, and trying to throw us or the police off their tracks. More likely us since I doubt Lestrade will figure out _American conspiracy group_ from a painted symbol and executed victim.”

A woman in a frilly blouse and tight jeans winks at John and he smiles happily at her. “So we don’t really know anything about them?” he asks Sherlock, eyes still focused on the pretty pair of legs across the room.

Sherlock glances up at John, confused. “Of course we do. We know a fair bit, I’d say. Were you even listen- oh.” He follows John’s gaze and rolls his eyes, snorting. “Don’t be silly, John. You’re a good bit older than her and she’s got two boyfriends. I doubt you’re of much interest.”

“Ah, and that’s where you’re wrong,” John muses, a cocky grin painted across his face. He takes another swig and sets his glass down besides Sherlock. “I’ll just be a bit. Don’t wait up for me, mate.” Smirking, he swaggers his way across the room, whispers something in the woman’s ear, and pulls her to the dance floor.

Gaping, Sherlock does his best to push down a wave of…something?...in his stomach. He watches for a moment before giving up, frustrated by the discomfort of whatever the feeling is. Preferring not to identify it, he shoves his phone back in his pocket and walks out of the bar, flipping his collar up higher against the rain.

The city air is cool against his skin and he realizes for the first time that he must have been flushed. Squinting up at the sky and the way the lights reflect off the low cloud cover, he inhales a deep breath. When it’s clear that John’s not going to follow him, he decides to take him at his word and not wait up. Without money for a cab and with a strong preference for London air, he elects to walk back.

He makes his way back slowly, tasting the way it feels to have made this same trip so many times that night alone. When he approaches the crime scene and recognizes Lestrade, he can’t help a soft chuckle. Hearing him approach, Lestrade turns to face him.

“Sherlock,” he nods, greeting the man with a half-smile. “Come back to make this difficult for us? Where’s John?”

“No,” Sherlock responds, glancing at him with steely eyes, narrowed to conceal whatever emotions they might betray. “I do believe I can make this easier for you.”

Lestrade searches his face for a moment, wondering, surely, at why he doesn’t say anything about John. Shrugging, he turns his head to gesture at the scene. “I can’t say no to that,” he decides. “What’ve you got?”

“The only thing you’ll learn from the body is who the victim wanted the world to think they were,” Sherlock responds, following Lestrade to the skip but keeping his eyes aloft.

“Well everyone wants the world to think they’re something. Doesn’t that still help?”

Sherlock stares blankly at Lestrade for a moment, evidently wondering if he’s serious. “Of course it does,” he finally says. “Possibly. Why do we kill, Lestrade?”

A short burst of laughter bubbles out of the detective as he peers more closely at Sherlock. “Well I should hope that _we_ don’t. We’re the good guys.”

A grateful smile peeks at Sherlock’s mouth before he continues, “Which is precisely why we do it. We stop evildoers and we tear down the image they’ve presented of themselves.”

“Right, but so why do bad guys kill, then?”

“Either for fun,” Sherlock muses, “or because they don’t think they’re the bad guys. Somebody wanted the victim dead to tear down that image.”

“You think something in the victim’s past came back to get him?”

Sherlock’s eyes turn rapidly to Lestrade’s face, his attention yanking away from whatever he was pondering. “’Him’? The victim was male?”

“You didn’t even look?”

They move together to the skip and Sherlock peers inside. The crumpled body of a man, a gun shot through the front of his head and most of the back of his skull blown away, lies in the bottom. A bulge in his pocket suggests his wallet is still on him.

“This wasn’t execution-style,” Sherlock murmurs slowly, pulling away from the sight. “This was no mercy.” He moves around to the spot where the victim was shot and examines the wall and ground again. Considering the height of the bullet mark, blood splatter, and mark where the victim’s skull landed against the wall made Sherlock think the victim was short and the perpetrator much taller. But the victim was tall, too tall for this sort of mark, and with evidence of such a lithe escape pointing towards a female killer, there was something wrong with his previous conclusion.

“What is it?” Lestrade asks, breaking Sherlock’s reverie. The world seems to spin in his head until he looks back at the detective inspector and makes a connection.

“Your knees are dirty,” Sherlock says calmly.

Lestrade glances down at his protective gear and shrugs. “Yeah? I crouched in the mud to get a look at the scene better. So?”

“ _So_ his are not.” He steps back to the skip and peers inside. “His hands are dirty and the backside of his trousers are dirty. He was pushed into a seated position and shot. He stared the killer in the face. The killer wanted him to know who it was.” Sherlock takes a step backward, walking away from the scene with wide eyes. “When you get an ID on him let me know. I think this is darker than we thought.”

“Than who thought? We haven’t had a chance to think anything yet!”

“Let me know,” he repeats as he exits the alley and starts up the street to 221B.

 _Vatican Cameos_. No. He’ll stop this.

* * *

 

He’s still awake when John arrives home late and the doctor jumps when he sees him. Sitting at his computer, staring at the screen, Sherlock doesn’t look up. John stares at him, head cocked, the hints of a small smile fading from his face.

“What’re you doing?” John asks nervously. “It’s four in the morning.”

“Hmm? Oh you’re here. Good. That’s good.” Sherlock’s curls bounce as he nods and his face seems to slacken. “I was worried.”

John snorts as he makes his way into the kitchen. “Why were you worried?”

“The killer was a woman and you’ve spent time in America,” he responds blankly. Straightening in his seat, his eyes suddenly focus sharply on John. “You’ve spent time in America,” he repeats.

“You think that’s why the victim was targeted?” John responds, trying to keep his nerves out of his voice. Something about Sherlock’s ferocity puts him on edge and the feeling of dread is heavy in his stomach again.

“Hmm, I think I do. Not sure why, though.”

“Any word from Lestrade?”

Sherlock picks up his laptop and carries it to the dining table, setting it so he and John can both see. “Yes and it looks like this wasn’t the first victim. They’d chocked the others up to gang violence and they’re leaning towards saying the same for this one but that’s _not_ what’s going on.”

“Has he gotten an ID on the body yet?” John presses, taking a snap out of a biscuit. Sherlock explains his encounter with Lestrade on the way back and the brief examination he’d done on the body. “So you were wrong, then?” John laughs, his eyes twinkling.

“A bit, but I think there’s something strange still. Someone light enough and small enough to go unnoticed in the alley, leave no footprints, and escape over the top of the skip with no sign left behind, but strong enough or intimidating enough to terrify the victim into the corner? He was cowering when he died, John.”

“He knew the shooter then,” John agrees. “But that wouldn’t be enough. I think you’re right, the shooter must’ve brought something from the victim’s past back to haunt him.”

“She wanted to tear down his public image. Lestrade sent me this,” Sherlock says, pointing to the open tab on his computer where an image of a man’s driver’s license and ID badge are up. “They’re running fingerprints of course to get a definitive identification but it looks like it’s a good match. He worked at a hospital the other side of town.” His eyes flick nervously to John’s face.

“He looks familiar,” John admits. “I’m not sure what it is about him. I don’t think I know him.”

Sherlock nods, having expected as much. “Well, we’ll get more information soon. You should sleep.” He snaps his laptop shut and leaves it on the table, moving to his chair in the living room.

“What about you?” John asks, rolling his shoulders.

His eyes are glazed again and he stares into the fire. “I think I’ll be up for a bit,” he says. “I need to think.”

John presses his lips together for a moment and looks away, wishing he knew what was going through his friend’s head. The fact that Sherlock Holmes is afraid means something dangerous is afoot. He stands and puts a lid over the plate of biscuits he’d been eating off of.

“Did you get lucky?” Sherlock asks casually, his eyes flicking to John’s face for just a moment before returning to the fire.

“A gentleman doesn’t…ah…kiss and tell. But they don’t call me John ‘Three Continents’ Watson for nothing,” he laughs.

“They don’t call you that at all.”


	7. What Scares Sherlock Holmes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***IMPORTANT NOTE:***  
> Please note the added story tags: Human-Trafficking; Implied Past Rape; Trauma; Violence (non-graphic).
> 
> These themes will become more prevalent as the story goes on, but there will be nothing explicit or happen "live" except one violent/angsty scene towards the end.

_It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

“You can’t stay here, Sherlock. He’s not-“

“I’m staying.”

“You can’t stay here. You’re not...”

“Not what, Mycroft? Not stable? Not safe? Not manageable? Pick an adjective and go. This is my fault and I’m staying…. What’re you doing?”

“Pulling up a chair for myself. If you’re staying, I’ll stay. I’m always here for you, brother mine.”

“No. You weren’t.”

* * *

 We blame ourselves for every step and misstep. We can only see the things we should've done differently. It's no wonder, then, that when someone presents themselves as an easy target for the externalization of our own self-loathing, that we take easily to blaming them instead.

* * *

 

The next morning, John finds himself entirely alone in 221B. It’s not unusual for Sherlock to be up and gone before John wakes up, despite the fact that he went to bed much later the night before. Still, something about the silent flat is eerie and he finds himself glancing at the clock, wondering when Sherlock will be back.

Yawning and making his way to the kitchen, he prepares a simple breakfast of eggs and toast. By the time he finishes eating, Sherlock still hasn’t returned, and worry begins to gnaw at his stomach. He brushes it away as best he can and puts his dish in the sink before heading for the living room. Sitting open on the table next to Sherlock’s chair, a notepad catches John’s eye.

He checks over his shoulder, confirming that the front door is closed safely, and steps forward. Scrawled in Sherlock’s careful handwriting are the words ‘trafficking’ and ‘Liberty Belles’. He wonders at the connection between the ideas, and why Sherlock would write it that way. “Liberty Bell…” he mutters to himself, remembering the explanation his friend had given him about the symbol and the famous broken bell. “Liberty Belles? What’re they trafficking?” His mind travels yet again to the Black Lotus and he shudders.

“I see you’re awake,” Sherlock’s voice resonates from the doorway.

John doesn’t so much as jump, pointing to the paper as he turns. “What is this about, Sherlock?”

“I have a theory, John,” Sherlock responds lightly, evidently trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. Something seems off—Sherlock is always excited about these things. What could keep the World’s Only Consulting Detective from gloating when a particularly mysterious case presents itself?

_Vatican Cameos…._

John waits a moment before asking, “Well, are you going to tell me?” Liquid blue eyes move cautiously to John’s face. Something is _wrong_. “What is it?”

Sherlock sighs quietly and delivers himself to the sofa. His hands move to his face and he covers his expression, strain carving every line of his form. John rolls up on his toes and then moves to sit beside Sherlock, leaving enough space between them that he can turn on one hip to view his friend more fully.

“I have a terrible feeling that something is going to go wrong,” Sherlock finally whispers, the breath of his voice breaking as he responds. “That I am going to fail and I will not be able to fix it. That the consequences will be too much.”

_Vatican Cameos._

“What makes you think that?”

Sherlock’s gaze lifts as his head does and he peers into John’s eyes again, as if perhaps he might find the answer there. Something in his posture says he’s afraid to look too deep. “I’m not sure,” he murmurs. “Just this feeling in my stomach.”

_Vatican Cameos._

Forcing a short laugh, John claps a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. “You? Have a feeling? Come on, Sherlock, how logical is that?”

Sherlock’s lips press together and his liquid eyes solidify into a stern examination. “You’re usually right, John. I’ve come to accept that. However, I do believe you are mistaken in this particular case.”

_Vatican Cam—STOP!_

“Tell me what your theory is.”

Nodding as if a decision has been reached, Sherlock straightens and pushes himself to his feet. He walks the short distance to the paper John had asked about and picks it up, waving it aloft to show off. “This,” he says, “is everything I know.”

“That’s not very encouraging,” John snorts, leaning back on the sofa and crossing his legs.

Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s face again before he continues, examining the page like there’s more to read than John had seen. “This is almost all of it. I’ve spent the morning at the lab, examining case reports from other victims previously identified as victims of gang-related activity. I’ve sorted through them and discovered four men besides the one we found. Each of them has either a medical or military background, and a few have both.” John shifts uncomfortably, sensing a discomfiting pattern. “Every victim was male. Every victim was killed the same way and dumped in a skip somewhere in London.”

John takes a deep breath as Sherlock pulls a heavy envelope from his suit pocket. He tosses it to John and turns to his room. “Where are you going?” John asks dully, catching the papers and opening the envelope to reveal pictures and basic records from each of the five victims.

“To change,” Sherlock shouts as he steps out of sight down the hall. “We’re staying in.”

It’s not long before the detective returns, wearing lounge clothes and a dressing gown. John has only managed to glimpse the first record and his face is contorted into a grimace as he examines the details. “Every victim was forced down like the one we saw,” he says. “Whoever’s doing this, they must be terrifying.”

“I don’t think so, John,” Sherlock responds, retrieving a map of London from the bookcase and laying it out on the floor. He gestures for the envelope and John moves to sit beside him on his knees, each leaning over the map. John spills the contents over the map as Sherlock continues: “I believe they were making a point.”

“A point?”

A knock at the door interrupts whatever Sherlock is about to say and the two men look up in time to see Mycroft entering, a frazzled Mrs. Hudson following behind him. “You can’t just _barge in_ , Mycroft Holmes!” she shouts, fussing about as she turns her eyes to Sherlock and John. “I’m sorry, boys, I really did try to stop him.”

“Funny,” Sherlock says, “I didn’t hear anything at all. You mustn’t lie, Mrs. Hudson.” John cocks his head at the detective giving a stern _Seriously?_ look, to which Sherlock shrugs and ignores. “What’re you doing here, Mycroft?” he continues, unperturbed by Mrs. Hudson’s grumpy huff as she turns back down the stairs.

“You said you weren’t taking the case,” the elder brother grumbles, his voice thick and condescending as ever.

“And I’m not. Goodbye!”

“Oh? Then what is this about the ‘Liberty Belles’? Surely there can’t be two such groups.” Mycroft leans in the doorframe like a parent watching their moderately disliked children playing; comfortable enough to stay, uncomfortable enough to wish he was elsewhere.

“I’m taking their case, sure. But I’m not helping you, Mycroft. I’m quite certain you know why.” Sherlock’s eyes shoot piercingly towards Mycroft and John pulls back, surprised by the disgust there.

Mycroft seems unsurprised and unaffected, although his jaw locks angrily and his nostrils flare. “You are playing a dangerous game, brother mine. You will lose.”

“Oh, do shove off, Mycroft. I’m really not interested.”

John watches as Mycroft’s lips press together, the same way his brother’s do, and he turns, stepping silently down the stairs. When he returns his eyes to Sherlock’s face, he finds an uncharacteristic self-doubt there. “Sherlock?”

“We have to figure out the pattern, John. There’s something here. There’s a message. These women want to leave a message for the next target and they want to make sure that these killings make a point. Whatever it is, it’s _here._ ”

“Do you think there’s more targets?” John asks quietly as Sherlock arranges each of the case reports out in front of him and retrieves several rolls of colored tape from his pocket.

“I suspect there’s two more,” he says seriously. With haunting eye that seem to pause time as they search John’s face, Sherlock seems almost to sense the same sort of danger as John.

_Vatican Cameos._

But what scares Sherlock Holmes?


	8. Vatican Cameos

_Any truth is better than indefinite doubt. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

“This is the end. It’s all over.”

“Don’t say it like that. That sounds so _final._ ”

“Is it not?”

“I hope so. I truly hope so.”

* * *

 

There’s rarely such a thing as the end. Either we become too afraid to let go, we bcome too addicted to let go, or we simply realize that there is so much more left for us to do. Perhaps those things are not so very different.

* * *

 

Sherlock stares at the map and the crossing lines. He tries to ignore their proximity to 221B and the sinking feeling that they will come much closer still. Five crime scenes, five residences, and five places of work are marked in different colors, with lines drawn between them to indicate the most likely path each man took between the three.

It stands out immediately to Sherlock that none of the men were killed between work and home, although they were all killed on that same path of the next victim. Pinned to the wall, the map provides a visual display of the patterns and movements of the Liberty Belles. Of course, Sherlock can’t be sure of this—he rarely is totally sure until the end—but he has good reason to think he’s right.

“So they _are_ American?” John asks, examining the proposed profile of the killers. His face is painted with concern and confusion, two of his more frequent expressions. Sherlock frowns at him and returns to the map.

“Yes,” he responds. “But I think you were probably correct in that they are posing as Americans, too. They want their victims to know who they are.”

John leans against the back of his chair and rubs his hands down his face. “America is such a funny place,” he comments, almost laughing. “I remember when I went for this conference a few years back. Well, more than a few I guess. It was when I was in the military still. Did a sort of exchange.”

“Exchange?” Sherlock asks stiffly.

“Yeah, a bunch of us who were studying specialized skills like medicine or aviation or something, we all went there to do a week-long program with some Americans in the same fields. Exchange knowledge, study together, attend conferences. That sort of stuff. We all stayed at this one hotel where all the maids were ladies and they were…quite willing.” An embarrassed laugh tickles his mouth and he forces a more serious expression.

Sherlock’s long since stopped moving, his eyes fixed on one single spot on the map. “Where in America, John?”

“Texas someplace I think. Why?” He finally looks up and notices Sherlock’s stillness. His brows furrow and he moves to his feet, stepping slowly towards Sherlock. “What is it?”

_Vatican Cameos._

“Don’t leave here,” Sherlock whispers fiercely. His hands clench into fists and his breathing quickens. He steps back from the map and sheds his dressing gown, darting to his room again. “I have to check something, don’t leave here.”

John stares, confused. When Sherlock returns, dressed again in his suit, he retrieves his phone from his pocket and punches in a few numbers, holding it up to his ear as he steps out the front door. Cocking his head, John stares at the spot Sherlock disappeared for several minutes. He’s certain that’s the first time he’s ever seen him voluntarily phone someone instead of texting.

Eventually, his eyes turn back to the map and he peers at the spot that had so enraptured his friend. In scarlet tape, the location of the most recent victim and the site where Sherlock and John had discovered a body stands out. Just a few blocks from 221B, its proximity is haunting.

_Vatican Cameos. Stop stop STOP._

John forces air into his hard lungs and refuses to acknowledge his fear. Realization seems to spread through him slowly, as if sliding icily through his veins. He thinks of Sherlock’s expression when he mentioned his time in Texas and the backgrounds of the other victims. Something stands out the tip of his thoughts, taunting him. He knows he’s figured it out, but the conclusion stands just out of reach.

Sherlock can’t be sure. Of course he can’t. But he has to find out. He has to know.

“What is it, Sherlock? It’s only been a couple of hours since you so rudely kicked me out of your flat,” Mycroft grumbles into the phone when he picks up.

“Meet me at Bart’s.”

“Why?”

Sherlock steps onto the street and hails a cab with his free hand. “I lost my partner, what’ll I do? I’ll get another, as pretty as you.”

The line is silent for a moment. “I’ll be there in seven minutes.”

“I’ll be there in five.” He hangs up the phone and climbs into the cab that arrives, directing the driver and settling into the backseat. The drive isn’t long and he’s hardly had time to slow down his breathing before he arrives. He passes a few notes to the driver and steps back out onto the street, walking quickly up the stairs to Bart’s and into the lobby where he finds Mycroft waiting for him.

“So you’ve got it then?” Mycroft presses, his grimace evidence of the fact that he has yet to let go of their recent disagreements.

Sherlock punches a search into his phone and holds up the screen to show Mycroft an image of one of his own top military men, a highly influential leader. “Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou,” he sings quietly.

Mycroft’s eyes shut slowly and the world seems to slow down. “Yes, Sherlock.”

“And the trafficking?”

“We…suspect…he may be at the center of it. Eyes are on him, I assure you, but without proof there’s little that can be done.”

Sherlock glowers ferociously at his brother, entirely disgusted by the association. “It’s become rapidly clear to me that you are not playing for the right side, Mycroft. Not, of course, unless it benefits you to do so.”

A cold smile paints its way across the Mycroft’s face and his eyes grow a stillness that would likely terrify a weaker man than Sherlock. Or at least, a more unfamiliar one. “Believe it or not, little brother, I am playing for your side most of the time. What does that say about your own alliances?”

“That they needn’t remain with you.” Sherlock sighs and shuffles uncomfortably, gesturing to a bench where they can sit beside each other and talk. “Fill me in, Mycroft.”

They follow each other to the seat and settle themselves awkwardly, each striking their most familiar postures. Mycroft, his hands resting on the umbrella propped between his legs, hardly looks comfortable with the situation, and Sherlock crosses his legs to appear more confident than he is.

“It was the early 2000s. A small crew of military men and women specializing in aviation, information systems, and other skills-“

“And medicine,” Sherlock growls.

“Yes. And medicine. They attended a conference in Texas intended to strengthen American/Briton relations and further develop the abilities of each group. Our soldiers were chosen for their prowess and they were all outstanding. I’m sure you’ll recognize their names.”

“Benjamin Harvey, Samuel Gordon, Lance Morin, Brody Gray, and Isaac Randolph,” Sherlock rattles off, listing the names of the most recent victims. “Lee Harrell,” he adds, indicating Mycroft’s man, “and John Watson.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighs miserably. “During their stay, they were lodged in a small hotel. For safety reasons, it was entirely booked out and only our men were allowed to stay. Their luxuries were immense the company of the hotel’s maids and employees was abundant. When they returned from their trip, they split ways. As far as we know, none of them spoke again.”

“But?”

“But one man went back. We couldn’t identify who it was. He had gotten involved in a human-trafficking scam based here in London. He took back a number of strongarms and abducted most of the employees of that hotel, effectively shutting down business.”

Sherlock crosses his arms, refusing adamantly to look at his brother. His eyes close for a moment and he sighs, fear building in his stomach.

_Vatican Cameos._

“How many women?”

“Thirteen.”

“How many now?”

“The bodies of four women have been found. Including the wife of one Edward Elliott, a wrangler in Texas. He’s since been sighted in London.”

Sherlock’s mind flashes back to the cowboy in the pub and he shudders. “Revenge, then?”

“When Mr. Elliott’s wife was discovered and he learned of the scheme and realized that one of the men who stayed there must’ve been at fault, he became enraged. He was largely responsible for the freedom of the remaining women who have since become known as the ‘Liberty Belles’.”

“Liberty Bell, Southern Belles. Very clever. And the song?”

“Code of course. They were intended to hide the bodies near skips around town, playing on the fact that the men were British and the fact that they were garbage. Considering the horror that had befallen the women, they had little reason to care which of the men were innocent, if any of them were. Mr. Elliott’s wife’s name was Lou.”

Sherlock nods, having figured out most of these details himself. “Mr. Elliott only conducts the revenge, he doesn’t actually execute it himself. He allows the women their own sweet revenge and they’re slaughtering the guilty parties. Which leaves now just John Watson,” he swallows hard. _Vatican Cameos._ “And Lee Harrell. Which is why this case was so important to you and why I refused to take it. You’re protecting him.”

“We have reason to believe he’s the guilty party. However, we have too little evidence to prosecute and too great a need for him. We need the Belles stopped.”

_Vatican Cameos._

“I believe I do, too. Get us protection, Mycroft. I’ll solve this case. Protect John Watson.” Pushing himself to his feet, Sherlock casts one more disgusted glance at his brother, whose eyes are fixed unseeingly on the floor. “You’ve screwed up, Mycroft. You will have to fix this. These women deserve better.” Without waiting for a response, he leaves, pushing himself out the door roughly.

Mycroft looks up only in time to see the door swing shut. “Yes,” he agrees quietly. “As does John Watson.” He retrieves his phone and places the first of several calls.

Sherlock scowls most of the ride home, entirely disappointed with himself for not having figured this out sooner. A total of seven targets and he’s only going to prevent the deaths of two of them. Hopefully. At least one of them.

_Vatican Cameos._

When he arrives and the door to 221B is slightly ajar, his heart seems to pound through his chest. A screaming pain in his lungs threatens to burst out in a scream and he sprints up the stairs, taking three at a time. Slamming open the door to their flat, he calls out John’s name with a strangled scream. “John?” he begs the empty flat. _Vatican Cameos._ “John? John!” _Vatican Cameos._

Tears paint his face as he stares up at the map. A scream dances at his lips. Terror wracks his body and one hand draws itself naturally to his mouth, either to stabilize himself or to stifle himself.

_Vatican Cameos._

He stares at the lines and the dots and all the markers that didn’t quite mean enough. He stares at the routes of each victim. He stares at the most recent marker, so near 221B. Realization dawns on him slowly and he curses himself for being so slow.

He pulls out his phone again and does a few more quick searches, marking the location of Lee Harrell’s home and work as he finds them. Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he examines the two new markers and considers the path between them. John Watson will be a message. There is no mercy. Terror slows him and his stomach feels hard. Ice pumps from his heart and chokes him.

_Vatican Cameos._

“There,” he points, nearly shouting as he identifies the most likely blocks for an attack. He retrieves his phone again and dials Lestrade as he sprints down the stairs.

_Vatican Cameos.  
Somebody’s going to die._

“Sherlock? You never call me,” Lestrade laughs as he picks up. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

_Vatican Cameos._

“Get everyone,” he shouts. “John’s going to die.”


	9. The Man With The Painted Face

_The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

“I do believe it’s time to go.”

“Just a few more moments. Please.”

“If it pleases you, we will never go at all. Take all the moments you need.”

* * *

 

There’s a way in which the world is, and it is always that way. If we’re very very lucky, we get to find that out for ourselves.

* * *

 

There are a great many streets in London and Sherlock Holmes knows them better than anybody else. To his great displeasure, he doesn’t know them well enough. Grateful for the day’s remaining light, he hails a cab and peers down every alley. His heart beats through his throat when he catches glimpses of skips, potentially the final resting place of his dearest friend, should he fail.

_Should he fail._

He can’t think about that. He keeps one hand on the door pull, ready to evacuate the vehicle at the first sign of John Watson. The last victim’s face, with a clear whole blown through it, seems to tug at his mind and he forces himself to focus on what he’s seeing rather than what he’s feeling.

Frustrated, he tells the cabby to pull over and he gets out, throwing a wad of notes to the man without looking at how much he owes him. There’s something haunting about this particular part of London and his skin crawls uncomfortably as he leans into a sprint. The Yard will be hear shortly with reinforcements but it’s unlikely that they will arrive in time. Sherlock knows he must stop this himself.

He sprints four blocks up the road, looking down every alley as he does so, crosses the road, and does the same on the other side. _Nothing._ His mind whirls and sways and the terrible thought that he could be wrong crosses his mind. What if Lee Harrell takes a different route to work? What if he frequents a café on another street, or prefers to drive his own vehicle rather than take a tube?

Sherlock pulls his phone from his pocket and is part way through dialing Mycroft’s number again when he hears the unmistakable sound of a spray can being shaken. His mind returns to the last crime scene, where the white bell was painted over the victim’s blood.

_Vatican Cameos._

But then John would be dead. And the killer moved fast, he would’ve heard the gunshot if they’d only just…No, not that. His eyes turn to the nearest alley and the only location he could’ve heard a spray can from. As his eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the narrow lane, he realizes that there are two skips in this one. He feels sick when he considers that John himself is not particularly tall, and wouldn’t be hard to hide.

Sirens storm down the street, pulling over as they catch sight of Sherlock. He doesn’t wait for Lestrade, but pushes himself down the alley towards the second skip. He can’t see behind it and he’s terrified of what he’ll find. His lungs are burning and his muscles are aching. There’s moisture on his cheeks and he’s not sure if it’s sweat or tears or simply the remains of the damp air painting his face.

“Of course you don’t remember,” a female’s voice laughs ahead. There is no humor in her icy tone. There is no mercy. “That’s what they’ve all said. But you wouldn’t would you? We didn’t matter to you.”

“No, please,” John’s broken whimper spikes agony through Sherlock’s chest and he slows his pace. Startling the attacker into shooting wouldn’t help any. “Please, I don’t know-“ he gasps in pain, “- I don’t know anything.”

“Stop it! You have no idea what we’ve lived through.”

“No,” he begs. “No, I really don’t, it wasn’t me. Please.” His voice is thick. There’s tears choking his voice. Sherlock notices for the first time that the woman’s voice is coming from higher than John’s— _because John is in the corner._

_Vatican Cameos._

Every nerve is on fire and every atom of his body rebels against his slowness. But he can’t risk John’s life. He uses his black jacket to his advantage, playing on the alley’s shadows and making his way behind the woman pointing a gun at John. She’s in an authentic maid’s dress, no doubt a call back to how she met Lee Harrell, although she doesn’t know it. There are scars evident along her arms and legs and the part of her neck that’s exposed under her short-cut hair.

Sherlock creeps forward, silently begging John not to panic. A growl builds in his chest. The woman cocks the gun.

_There’s an eerie stillness that settles in the air before a gunshot. Like the clouds that precede a storm. It’s always broken with a bang and the world flies into a flurry, like it’s trying to make up for that one still moment._

Slamming against the woman, Sherlock knocks the gun free from her hand. To his horror, he fails to stop the shot that resonates just a moment before he gets there. A spray of red blood against the brick wall and John slumps unmoving, the pain and panic on his face erased by a single gunshot.

Sherlock forgets for a moment that he feels bad for these women. He forgets that they’ve been tortured and abused. The woman is not a victim or a survivor but a killer and he has very little restraint left to keep her alive. He ignores her. Lying in the dirt, unconscious or dead, she is not his concern.His heart seems to shatter as a scream erupts from his lungs. Just one single word: “John.”

_Vatican Cameos._

He crawls to where John’s body remains. Blood, warm crimson blood, leaks down John’s shirt. The bullet missed its mark and shot instead through John’s chest. Blood pours down the wall behind him as well. It went all the way through.

“John?” Sherlock cradles the dying man in his arms, holding his head in his lap. Tears stream down his cheeks, painting his face. “John? Please, John.” His voice is all but gone. A trickle of words, the crack of a broken man’s heart ripping out of his body as the only thing he’s ever loved dies in front of him.

“Holy shit,” Lestrade’s voice sounds behind him. Sherlock doesn’t look up, but points to the woman still lying on the ground. Some of Lestrade’s men grab her carefully and roll her onto her back. Scars paint her face. Three men with a rolling gurney arrive a second later and pull John onto the cart as Lestrade holds Sherlock back.

“Please,” Sherlock whimpers. He can’t seem to stand, he can’t seem to breathe. There is no air in London. There is no mercy. Lestrade helps him stand and they follow after John. They load him into the ambulance and Sherlock joins Lestrade in a squad car.

Sirens blare from the roof as Lestrade moves in front of the ambulance, ensuring a proper police escort. Sherlock can’t help crying, although he tries desperately to wipe the evidence of his grief from his face. His bloodied hands leave streaks of red on his cheeks. The man with the painted face and the broken heart.


	10. I'm Staying

_To the man who loves art for its own sake, it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

The drive to the hospital is short and when they arrive, John has been stripped, put on IVs, and his wounds are tightly packed. Evidently he hit his head when he was shot and he still hasn’t woken up. Sherlock can’t fight the fear that he might not.

_Vatican Cameos._

Sherlock runs to meet the crew that pulls John along the halls, slamming their way into the hospital. “John? John! Stay with me, John, you have to survive this, come on you have to survive this.”

Several nurses run over and one of the paramedics turns to look at the nearest one with wide eyes. “We’re losing him!” he growls with a coarse voice.

“John, come on, please!” Sherlock’s voice is just a whimper and he’s suddenly pulled away from the group as they push him through the doors deeper into the hospital.

“Sir,” a small nurse instructs him firmly. “We’re going to need you to wait here while we take him into surgery.”

She fixes him with strong eyes before taking off again, following the group as they round another corner and the doors swing shut. “John….”

_There’s few places as lonely as the Emergency Room’s lobby. Waiting for news and being terrified to receive it. Watching as the clock ticks on, wondering if it’s ticking its last for someone on the other side of those big double doors._

Sherlock sits for a while. And then he stands. Then he paces. Then he sits. Someone offers him help cleaning his face and he thinks they must’ve done so because his face feels clean. But he doesn’t remember. He hardly paid attention.

At some point, Lestrade joins him. There is fear and worry creasing his face as well, and he’s only just returned from talking to the shooter. “Sherlock,” he whispers. “We’re going to need your statement.”

“Now? With John….”

“The sooner you talk to us, the sooner we can get the guy who did this.” He’s trying to be nice. He’s trying to make it easier.

“Just say it, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock growls. _Vatican Cameos._ So many words unsaid.

“We want to catch the guy who shot John Watson.” There’s a finality to his voice. There is no mercy.

Anger paints Sherlock’s face with an ugly scowl. “You have the woman who did it,” he responds.

“You know the whole story, Sherlock, don’t pretend. We want to catch the guy in charge.”

“Your _guy_ is Lee Harrell. He’s working for the British government and he’s the reason these women have come here.”

They’re quiet. Lestrade’s hands clench and unclench and Sherlock grimaces, looking away from the familiar gesture. “Shooting someone because you’ve been abused is one thing. Orchestrating it is quite another. We’ll catch this bastard.”

Sherlock nods silently and relays everything he knows. When he’s done, he calls Mycroft and gets information from him as well. Apparently, Mycroft hasn’t been sitting idle, and he’s able to provide the suspected address where the Liberty Belles might be hiding out. Eager, Lestrade leaves immediately, hoping to catch anyone still hiding out.

_Vatican Cameos._

Time passes. Breaths in, breaths out. Blood pumps. Eyes blink. Time passes.

_No one is ever scared of the moment they are in, but only of waiting to find out what happens in the next one. We rip ourselves apart, piece by broken piece, waiting for the chance to break into the future and steal the answers for ourselves today._

Sherlock’s mind is black and dead and his chest is an empty cavity where fragments of a heart beat futilely. An OR nurse in blue scrubs steps into the waiting room. Sherlock blinks slowly, not registering her presence until she’s just a foot or so away.

“Mr. Holmes? I’m so sorry…it’s not good news.”

The world bleeds like John bled. “Ah,” he manages to splutter. “I see. Is there any hope at all?” The world cries like Sherlock cries.

“Not much, sir. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

_Vatican Cameos._

The world dies like John is dying.

_Quiet moments are always the loudest. When frail breathing and declining heartbeats are the loudest thing we know. And the loud moments are the quietest. When the only sound that remains is the lingering peal of a gunshot and a broken scream._

“Can I see him?”

The nurse hesitates. Perhaps it’s the frenzied grief in Sherlock’s eyes or the strangled trauma in his soft voice. But she hesitates. She’s seen the man and there’s not much life left. That’s rarely good for friends or family. “Give us just a few moments to get him ready,” she replies honestly before leaving back through the doors. Those big double doors.

_Vatican Cameos._

It seems like a very long time to Sherlock. He’s not sure what to do while he waits. Not much use in planning words to say or cleaning up his appearance. He’s not sure what he’ll see, but he’s not ready for a goodbye.

When the nurse returns and gestures for him to follow her, he does so with a strange sort of anxiety. It’s no wonder that he’s uncomfortable and terror gnaws at his stomach. But as much as he wants to see John, he doesn’t want to see him _like this._

He enters the room the nurse identifies and nearly collapses. Immediately grateful for the chair next to John’s bed, he sits and gazes at his friend. “I’m so sorry, John,” he whispers. His hand reaches forward without his permission, wrapping gently around John’s wrist.

His other wrist is bound tightly, apparently broken during the attack. Sherlock remembers John gasping in pain and thinks that must’ve been due to that injury. A concussion, a broken arm, and a gunshot wound at least. He wonders what else.

“I wish I could hear your voice again. I wish I could be sure you understood how sorry I am for all of it. I’d take it all back if I could keep you safe.” His voice is strangled. He hates it. He hates himself for leaving. “I knew it was dangerous. I should’ve brought you with me to see Mycroft.”

_By the time we realize we’re wrong, it’s very rarely in time to correct our mistake. If we ever could, there would be no such thing as regret. The very easiest wrongs to regret are the ones we think we should’ve seen coming or think we had some power to stop._

At some point, Mycroft enters. He stands behind Sherlock and peers at the two of them. “Are you prepared for the worst, Sherlock?”

Despite himself, Sherlock scoffs. “We can’t dwell on that,” he replies quietly. “There’s too much at stake.”

“Yes,” he whispers. “I suppose there is.”

The silence between them stretches on and the elder brother turns to leave. “Vatican Cameos, Mycroft,” Sherlock finally says. “Please do take care of yourself.”

One hand lingers on the door knob and Mycroft glances back over his shoulder. Something like sadness fills him and his voice is choked, too. “Yes, brother mine. I am so sorry.”

_Isn’t it funny that the best tends to bring out our worst, and vice versa? It is when we have everything that we begin taking it for granted. It is when we have lost everything that we find a strength to be our best selves and push ever onward._

“Make sure Lee Harrell is brought down,” Sherlock responds harshly.

“You can’t stay here, Sherlock,” Mycroft finally says, turning away from the door. “He’s not-“

“I’m staying.”

“You can’t stay here,” he repeats more firmly. “You’re not….” he trails off, apparently not sure what to say.

“Not what, Mycroft?” Sherlock demands, turning to look at his brother, tearing his eyes away from John for the first time. The machines hooked up to John pulse weakly, the only indication that there’s three of them in the room, not two. “Not stable? Not safe? Not manageable? Pick an adjective and go.” He sighs softly and turn back towards his friend. It’s been hours. So many hours. And he can’t lose a minute. “This is my fault,” he whimpers. “And I’m staying.” Mycroft seems to accept this response and leaves through the door without a word. Shortly, however, he returns. “What’re you doing?”

“Pulling up a chair for myself,” he responds, rolling his shoulders and hanging his umbrella on the coathook by the door. “If you’re staying, I’ll stay. I’m always here for you, brother mine.”

Sherlock doesn’t look up. Doesn’t look away. “No,” he snarls. “You weren’t.”

_We blame ourselves for every step and misstep. We can only see the things we should've done differently. It's no wonder, then, that when someone presents themselves as an easy target for the externalization of our own self-loathing, that we take easily to blaming them instead._

Mycroft doesn’t leave. He doesn’t reject the accusation, but he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t sleep, either. Together, the Holmes brothers sit in silent vigil over the best man either of them had ever known. Neither can quite say goodbye.

Lestrade returns, his face painted with sweat and excitement. “We got them,” he gasps, panting from his evident run inside the hospital. “We’ve got all of them.”

Sherlock’s eyes remain on John and the news is hardly comforting. Carefully, Mycroft extricates himself from his own limbs and stands, retrieving his umbrella. “Lead the way, Detective Inspector. I have questions to ask and I will help you close this case.”

“What? But Sherlock….”

“Sherlock is needed here,” Mycroft insists.

“Yes,” Lestrade murmurs, as if he’s just realizing. “Yes, he does. What can you help with?”

The two leave through the door, still talking and Sherlock can only just hear Mycroft talking when the door finally shuts: “I believe the name ‘Lee Harrell’ will be of great importance.”

Sherlock almost smiles. The world is almost a better place. But it isn’t really.

_Vatican Cameos._

“I’ve been so stupid,” he whispers, breaking down into the tears he’s apparently been repressing. “And I’m so sorry.”

The lights and beeps of John’s machine are fading, there’s no denying that. John Watson is going to die. There’s pain etched in Sherlock’s every instance and for the first time, he cannot see beyond this moment. His sobbing his desperate but so weak. He does not have the energy to grieve. He does not have the energy to accept that there is anything to grieve about. He’s hardly slept and he doesn’t have energy for anything.

There’s a beep. It’s sharp. It’s much stronger. And then there’s another beep.

Sherlock’s eyes turn to the heart monitor and his own heart skips. There’s another beep.

“Nurse,” he shouts ineffectively. Scrambling past his own foolishness, he reaches for the call button and punches it rapidly. “Nurse!”

“It’s not very often,” a weak voice pushes past John’s cracked lips. “That Sherlock Holmes apologizes.”

Sherlock laughs, a short, teary, watery mess of a laugh. He stares at John, wiping tears with his wrist as the nurses rush in. “You’re going to live,” he chokes.

“Of course I bloody am,” John responds quietly, resigning himself to the nurses’ attention. “It’s not the first time I’ve been shot.”


	11. Take All the Moments You Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it's done! This is the end! I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed writing this and I hope you all enjoyed reading it!

_For strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

The hospital is quiet early in the morning. It was a beautiful sort of quiet because a busy hospital is most certainly a bad thing. Sherlock is just grateful for the lull after so many days of busy movement and fear.

“Can you believe it’s been a week?” Lestrade asks, his hands on his hips. With John just hours from being released from the hospital, it’s no surprise that so many have turned up to greet him.

“Quite so,” Sherlock responds cheerily. “It seems that I’ve not eaten in a week.”

Lestrade turns, shocked. “Sherlock,” he says, leaning forward for emphasis. “You have to eat something.”

“I will,” Sherlock replies cheekily. He raises an eyebrow at Lestrade and then returns his gaze to the double doors to wait for John. “John and I will get chips.”

Lestrade gestures at the gathering crowd of people, including the two of them, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, and even Mike Stamford. Sherlock doesn’t recognize most of the others but assumes they’re people he’s been a dick to and John has been nice to. They tend to play the same roles and the assumption is a safe one. “Sherlock, you know John might not-“

“Be quiet, Lestrade.” They stand together quietly for a moment before Sherlock glances at him again, evidently aware of the sudden tension in Lestrade’s shoulders. “I have chips at home,” he explains. “I made it all ready for him.”

Repressing a smile, Lestrade doesn’t respond. He’s known Sherlock for a long time and he’s never seen him like this. Almost as if he’s fallen in—

“John!” Sherlock is, of course, the first to notice John as the nurse wheels him out. He’s dressed in a soft jumper and khakis, an outfit Sherlock brought for him. The rest of the crowd responds to the outcry with scattered cheers and lots of smiles.

The wounded man seems utterly torn between smiling and grimacing, a reasonable response to every social encounter to Sherlock’s mind, but one fairly out of character for John. “Bloody hell, I didn’t know I was famous,” he remarks with a stilted laugh.

Sherlock approaches smoothly, his eyes all for John. “Are you alright?” he asks quietly. “I got us chips.”

John smiles brightly, looking up at Sherlock with affectionate eyes. “Absolutely,” he breathes gratefully.

Having decided that a cab probably wouldn’t be the most comfortable ride home, Lestrade had taken the steps to ensure a squad car was available, and he walks out with Sherlock and John. “I brought it up here and you can sit in the back or front,” he says, guiding them to the curb. The nurse helps John out of the seat and shakes his hand.

“It’s been a pleasure, Dr. Watson,” she smiles. “Enjoy your recovery. I can see that you’re loved very much and I’m sure you’ll be pampered.” She glances up at Sherlock with a conspiratorial laugh before folding up the wheelchair and returning to the hospital.

Sherlock and John glance at each other with awkward smiles. “Well, yeah, that sort of makes sense,” Lestrade shrugs, interrupting the moment. “Alright, front seat or back seat?”

John takes the front and Sherlock climbs into the back. Peering out the window, Sherlock has to pry his eyes away from dark alleys with skips, and he notices that John does the same. “Thanks for doing this, Greg,” John says, a smile painted on his face.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” the detective responds. “If you’re up for it, we were planning a bit of a welcome-home-party for you two. Tonight at the bar next to Bart’s.”

Sherlock’s eyes move silently to what he can see of John’s face, observing the careful response. “I don’t know how I’m going to feel, honestly,” he grimaces.

“Well, it’s not hard to convince anyone to go out drinking,” Lestrade laughs, pulling up to 221B. “So we’ll be there either way. We caught ‘em by the way. I dunno if Sherlock told you.”

“Good,” John responds sincerely.

Climbing out first, Sherlock moves to the front of the vehicle to help John out, minding his injury. He can certainly walk, but not without pain, and Sherlock keeps one arm braced around his waist, waving with his free hand as Lestrade pulls away.

“This is the end,” John muses. “It’s all over.”

Sherlock scoffs sharply. “Don’t say it like that. That sounds so _final._ ”

Laughing, John turns to look up at his friend. “Is it not?” he asks.

Images of the cowboy man and the murderous women who had been so abused come to mind. Images of John’s body slumped beside a bloodied skip come to mind. “I hope so,” he responds, peering into John’s eyes. “I truly hope so.”

_There’s rarely such a thing as the end. Either we become too afraid to let go, we bcome too addicted to let go, or we simply realize that there is so much more left for us to do. Perhaps those things are not so very different._

They climb the stairs to their flat carefully, minding each step together. Sherlock keeps his arm around John and John keeps himself linked closely to Sherlock. It seems neither is prepared to let go.

Sherlock lowers John gently into his seat and only just manages to refrain from brushing a hand across his arm or cheek. “I’m just so glad you’re home,” he answers the question in John’s eyes.

“Me, too,” John says, reaching up and clutching Sherlock’s hand. “ _We’re_ home.”

They relax most of the rest of the day, and Sherlock bustles about, appropriately pampering the wounded veteran. Providing a proper cuppa and a bowl of chips, Sherlock can’t seem to sit still. Eventually, he manages it. And 221B almost feels normal again.

_There’s a way in which the world is, and it is always that way. If we’re very very lucky, we get to find that out for ourselves._

“I do believe it’s time to go,” Sherlock murmurs, breaking the comfortable silence when he glances at the clock.

John sighs, a playful sort of smirk painted on his face. “Just a few more moments. Please.”

Sherlock relaxes, sinking into his chair and peering at his dear friend. “If it pleases you,” he responds in just barely more than a whisper. His eyes are liquid and he seems to melt as he considers John’s soft expression. “We will never go at all. Take all the moments you need.”


End file.
